The Godbot
by plenoptic
Summary: Imagine the Autobots and Decepticons as the Atobotis and the Demeccis--the most powerful Mafioso families in twentieth century New York. Inspired by Mario Puzo's The Godfather. Humanoid.
1. i: Introducion

**The Godbot**

_Plenoptic_

**This is what happens when Plenoptic is in the car for twelve hours and has nothing better to do than read the Godfather :3. Humanoid fic, please enjoy. I'll update whenever my muse bites my butt or whenever else I have time.**

**Terms**: (All terminology taken from _The Godfather_, by Mario Puzo)

Don: Leader of a Mafioso family.

Consigliere: The confidant, advisor, and most trusted friend of the Don.

Caporegime: The "captain" of a Mafioso family, who manages a unit of hit men and assassins called a regime.

Pezzonovante: "Big shot". Usually a corporate leader or something of the like. _Pezzonovantes_ seem to be looked down upon by the Mafioso.

Lupara: A powerful and altogether destructive and deadly gun that seems to have originated in Sicily.

**Characters**:

_The Atoboti Family:_

Primo Atoboti (Optimus Prime): The Don of the esteemed and revered Atoboti Family. Fair and righteous, his kills are strictly business and he watches over his Family with a strict yet caring hand.

Lita Atoboti (Elita One): The Don's kind yet fiery wife. She serves as a mother figure and confidant to all of the closest members of the Family.

Rodrigo Atoboti (Rodimus Prime): Don Primo and Lita's eldest son. He aspires to take control of the Family once his father retires, but his hotheadedness and unorthodox problem solving skills have left him in poor favor for the position.

Bastiano Atoboti (Bumblebee): Don Primo and Lita's second son. Though he is much too good-natured and kind hearted to ever become the Don, he offers his assistance wherever it is needed (and legal) and as such has gained favor with his father, who believes that all it would take is one business kill to convince Bastiano that he could be a Don like no other…

Clara Atoboti (Chromia): Don Primo and Lita's youngest child and only daughter. She acts sweet and innocent around her parents, but reveals a fiery and stubbornly independent personality to all suitors (and to her brothers, but only when they deserve it).

Paciano Silvestre (Prowl): The Don's _Consigliere_. Pedantic and fiercely loyal, Paciano is not only Don Primo's most trusted friend but a valued comrade of all of the Don's immediate family as well. He is the Godfather of Rodrigo, and was assigned this position in the hopes of straightening the boy out. No such luck as of yet.

Icilio Guarini (Ironhide): The Atoboti Family's most prominent and powerful _caporegime_. Icilio is a long time friend of the Don and the Godfather of Bastiano. Icilio is best known for his violent nature and incredible skill with a _lupara. _He also has incredible feelings for the beautiful Clara, which he restrains only when her father is around or if one of his guns is in her dainty hands and aimed at his crotch.

Leonardo Atoboti (Jetfire) (I couldn't find any "J" Italian names): Not only is he a _caporegime_ of the Atoboti family, this wisecracking and cocky young man is also the Don's younger brother. He's known to be a witty son of a bitch as well as a lady's man.

Raffele Tenaglia (Ratchet): The third and final _caporegime_. He is also the Family's private doctor and one of the few men who can put the young Don in his place. He is Clara's Godfather and takes it upon himself to keep her out of Icilio's clutches. Known to be quite grouchy but is always keen to lend a helping hand--usually to the ladies.

Savino Atoboti (Sentinel Prime): Don Primo's wise and warm-hearted father. A heart condition forced him to retire early, making his earnest young son the Don.

Cristaldo Atoboti (Kup): Savino's father and Primo's grandfather. He is abysmally old and not always all there in the head, but he is still a valued member of the Atoboti Family. When he was the Don, it was he who established the Atoboti's power in New York.

_The Demicci Family:_

Melchiorre Demicci (Megatron): The brutal and cold-hearted Don of the Demicci Family. Though he was once Don Primo's closest friend, mysterious events pushed them apart.

Tecla Demicci (Thunderblast): Don Melchiorre's wife. She harbors less of a black heart than he does, but she has a great capacity for hate if her one child is involved. Over the years she has felt less and less love for her husband as she watches him deteriorate, and this frightens her.

Stefano Demicchi (Starscream): Don Melchiorre and Tecla's only son. He aspires to succeed his father, but has a foolish streak and does not do well in situations of great pressure.

Tussio Bizzarri (Thundercracker): One of the two Demicci _caporegimes_. He is Stefano's buddy but is nearly as idiotic as his friend. He was given the position of captain solely for swiftness and the uncanny ability to unnerve his enemies past the ability to function properly in battle.

Socrate Zaratino (Soundwave): The Demicci _Consigliere_ and Don Melchiorre's only true friend. He has a brutally tactful mind and is not dissuaded or discouraged by any botched mission. Tolomeo is his only competition of the position of Don if Melchiorre were to meet an early demise.

Tolomeo Acardi (Trypticon): The second Demicci _caporegime_. He is fast, mobile, and very good in any combat situation. He is very ambitious and, unlike the more subtle Socrate, has made it more than apparent that he covets the position of Don, though Melchiorre is far too powerful to be overthrown by one of his own Family.


	2. I: Atoboti

**The Godbot**

_Plenoptic_

**Here we go :D Remembering all these Italian names is hard! XD**

_Additional terms:_

Nonno: Sicilian for "grandfather"

Bella: something akin to "beloved"

_Additional Characters:_

Surano and Siricio (Sunny and Sides): Icilio's loveable, fun-loving protégés, and Primo's bodyguards for small-time missions. They abandoned their surnames when they were adopted into the Atoboti family.

**

* * *

**

_I. Atoboti_

Icilio Guarini rubbed a hand over his unshaven face, blinking tiredly down at the dirty counter. The mug in his hand was just as unclean, filled to the brim with rye, and it seemed to be calling his name sweeter than any girl he could even begin to imagine.

Tossing it back, enjoying the feel of the lukewarm liquid on the back of his throat, Icilio silently reprimanded himself for his thoughts. Damn it, now was _not_ the time to be thinking of girls. Women, he told himself. Go after women--_not_ the Don's daughter.

"She turns sixteen tomorrow."

"Screw you," Icilio grumbled, more on instinct than anything else. A frowning Raffele settled into the seat beside his friend and politely asked the grizzled bartender for a dark wine.

"A _caporegime_ should not be sitting by himself in a dark bar at this time of night," Raffele Tenaglia murmured disapprovingly, glancing sideways at his friend. "You're drunk."

"Screw you," Icilio repeated flatly. "And why shouldn't I be my lonesome? Because I might get whacked? Because a man of my incredible stature shouldn't--"

"Not that one, I guarantee you. How about because the fact that Clara won't be in your bed tonight is no reason to drink yourself to death? But also because you could get whacked, yes."

"Funny how that's an afterthought. For a doctor, you don't seem to give a damn."

"I give a damn about a lot of things. The Don. The Don's family. Women. Good wine." He nodded approvingly to the bartender and then gently kicked Icilio's leg. "Go back home. You're as bad as a Yank."

"I'll give you a yank," Icilio grumbled darkly, resting his chin on the counter and barking out an order for more liquor. Raffele pointedly intercepted it, giving the bartender a rueful smile as he got to his feet, dragging a whining Icilio along with him.

"The streets are absolutely infested with Demicci thugs and Yank would-be thugs," Raffele said in a low voice as he pulled his fellow _caporegime_ away from the bar and out into the frigid air. "Especially in the middle of December at"--he checked his golden wristwatch-- "three in the morning. Honestly, I thought you'd be happy that the Don's daughter is finally of age."

"Now that she's of age, I don't have a chance at getting with her," Icilio moaned, dragging his feet drunkenly behind a very bemused Raffele. "Her brothers will guard her like any good Sicilian would guard his sister. The Don will have me hit for sure. And Lita--she'll _murder_ me if I so much as glance at Claricci."

"Claricci? Good God, man, if you're making up nicknames then this could be worse than I'd feared."

"Screw you."

…

Primo Atoboti inhaled deeply as consciousness floated to the forefront of his mind, arousing the thoughts he'd abandoned the previous night when he'd slipped into sleep. Rolling over, he pulled the soft bed covers up over his bare body, shivering in the cool morning air. Who the hell had left the damn window open?

His irritation vanished immediately at the sight that greeted him as he rolled over, and a soft smile drifted over his tanned features. Reaching out, strong yet nimble fingers gently stroked the dark red curls that adorned his beloved wife's head. Lita sighed softly, nuzzling her face into the pillow, eyelids fluttering gently. He caught a glimpse of her startling green eyes and smiled more widely, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her porcelain forehead.

"Away, you rogue," she murmured softly, and his smile widened to a grin.

"Absolutely not," he mock-growled, pressing their foreheads together and nuzzling his nose against hers. "You're far too beautiful for a man as weak as myself to leave alone."

Her emerald eyes opened, and she beamed into his handsome face. "You're too old to be acting like a teenager, Primo. Get your rear out of bed and go play gangster until you're ready to behave like a thirty-five year old man."

"I'm thirty-four," he replied in mock horror, pretending to be offended, and with a smirk she rolled over, facing away from him. Grinning, for he loved the games they played in the very early morning, Primo scooted closer, moving aside her soft locks to gently kiss her behind the ear. She giggled, reaching back to caress his finely chiseled face, and he kissed the palm of her hand. Her bare body was warm despite the chill of the room, and he eagerly snuggled closer, resting his hand on the smooth curve of her hip and thigh.

"I've told you you're beautiful, yes?" he murmured, sweetly kissing her shoulder.

"About forty-five seconds ago," she replied in a whisper. "Go. I'm sure Clara is already up and eagerly awaiting your approval of her gown."

"You're her mother," Primo groaned quietly. "Gowns and such are more your forte, yes?"

"She wants to be told she looks beautiful by a man."

"All fathers think their daughters are beautiful."

"Not all fathers are as damnably honest as you are," she retorted, rolling onto her back to smile up at him as he loomed over her. Her dark, sensual Italian prince. He capitalized on the fleeting opportunity, leaning in to lovingly kiss her soft, full lips. The gentle glow of passion ignited somewhere deep within him, and he'd just lifted a hand to caress her breast when she suddenly rolled out of bed, bringing the sheet with her and leaving him kissing the pillow. He lifted his head to see his lovely wife standing a few feet from the bed, the sheet wrapped around her naked body to guard against the cold and his prying eyes.

"Go on, Don Atoboti," she said affectionately, laughter dancing in her gentle eyes. "Go look at your beautiful daughter. Go enjoy your last few minutes as the father of a young girl."

He cocked his head, dark eyes surveying her curves through the sheet. "Only if there's a surprise waiting for me in the bath when I return," he replied cheekily, and with a grin she curtseyed before moving to the bathroom.

Primo dressed quickly, suddenly eager to see his daughter now that the distraction of his wife was out of the way. He felt that he was perhaps a little too young to already be watching his last child blossom into adulthood, but of course he and Lita had been quite vivacious lovers when they were young; their children had come three years in a row, one after another, and right after Clara's third birthday Primo had been made the Don.

His fingers slowed on the buttons of his shirt, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. Thirty-four years old as of two months ago, and here he was. He was responsible for the death of tens of men by now, and here he was, greeting his daughter's sixteenth birthday with the rest of his family. The double life, though it was no secret to his loved ones, was unbearably painful at times. The men he'd had killed would never know the happiness of having a full-grown daughter, would never again know the joy in making love to a woman they truly cared about. Who was he to take that from them?

"Primo?"

He turned at the sound of her voice, his heart breaking at the sight of her. Lita. So beautiful. He'd fallen in love with her when they'd both been a tender sixteen; the same age as Clara would turn at eight fourteen that night. Lita had been the most ethereally beautiful girl he'd ever laid eyes on, and she'd captivated for the full six months he courted her. Here they were, eighteen years later, and still she captivated him.

His eyes caressed her slender figure, wrapped though it was in a soft silk robe his father had given her a year ago, her dark locks as they framed her pale, oval face, her piercing and ever-loving emerald eyes that were as lively and green as the Irish countryside that her mother had called home.

"I'm going," he assured her softly, and made for the door, but she intercepted him. He closed his eyes as her hands cradled his darker face, nearly sobbing at the tenderness of her touch. Her warm lips closed over his, kissing him with all the love in the world, and his heart ached. He was a _murderer_. A killer, and he claimed that all kills were for the sake of business. Business! No human life was a matter of business! He was a murderer, and still she loved him.

"You've done up your shirt wrong," she murmured, lowering her mouth to gently undo the buttons of his shirt. "You always miss the bottom one."

"You know me far too well," he chuckled softly, caressing her cheek as she fixed his shirt for him. "Shall I tie you to our bed with this shirt tonight as a token of my gratitude?"

"We'll see," she snorted, slapping his chest playfully. "I'm sure Clara is growing impatient."

"Yes, yes," he laughed, and kissed her forehead briefly before exiting his room.

The Atoboti household was really a complex network of rooms and smaller domiciles. The main building held all of the Family's offices, the meeting rooms, the grand kitchen--it was the central convergence area for any member of the Family. Adjoined to the Palace, as it was fondly called by those who frequented it, were several smaller domiciles that were more like townhouses than anything else. They were small and comfortable, able to house up to four people; ideal for the families of the Don and his closest associates. Further away from the Palace were two small apartment buildings for visiting members of other Families or business partners; visiting friends of the Don were given the luxurious guest rooms within the Palace itself.

That was only the main household, of course. The entire estate covered an area of several hundred square acres. The land of the estate was like a huge garden; some bits were agricultural, as many of the women enjoyed cooking with homegrown ingredients as they'd once done in Sicily, but the gardens were primarily filled with exotic species of trees and flowers. Especially flowers. Lita absolutely loved them, and of course the Don went to all lengths to accommodate her. Flowers had been imported from every corner of the globe, arranged into bright and beautiful gardens all their own, all accompanied by a small maze of cobblestone and white pebble pathways. Marble statues dotted the estate like sentries on the grounds of a royal castle (which they were; the _Consigliere_ had taken the liberty of installing security cameras in many of them).

The estate itself was surrounded by a wall; a great stone wall of European design. The gate was massive, a good fifteen feet high, and of the finest wrought iron the world had to offer, wound into intricate designs that would have made the great artists of history marvel at the excruciating detail.

The Atoboti estate was truly an Eden within New York City, located on the outskirts. Urchins from the bowels of the city would often travel out to the estate to press their faces to the cool metal of the gate, whispering in awe of the towering Palace nearly a half mile off.

Primo Atoboti made his way from his cozy townhouse to the small adjoining room that Clara had absolutely insisted upon; not that her parents had protested much, they quite enjoyed the privacy an empty home provided them with, but it did get lonely without Clara's incessant chattering.

He knocked upon the door respectfully, and her songbird voice cheerfully bade him entry. Primo opened the door and stepped in, nostrils flaring slightly at the obtrusive onslaught of perfume. Ah. So this was what a young girl's home smelt like. Lita had never been too preoccupied with such frivolities, so his poor sinuses were quite unaccustomed.

"Clara?" he called questioningly. Good Lord, the perfume was so thick it practically created a fog! "Dearest, no man will marry you in this state."

"Why on earth not?" she gasped, poking her head around a corner.

"Because he'll suffocate if he comes within three feet of your lovely face," Primo replied, smiling to assure her that he was only joking. He knew that within hours of her birthday men would be tripping over themselves to make her their bride.

Rolling her eyes, Clara beckoned him with a hand, and he sauntered cautiously into her room.

His breath caught at the sight of his daughter, and an incredible amount of affection welled within him. Clara was a curious combination of genes if nothing else; she had her father's dark hair but her mother's corkscrew curls and fair skin. But her eyes were unquestioningly Italian; dark brown, like warm chocolate.

Clara's small hand nervously patted out the wrinkles in her gown, and she offered her father a timid smile. "Well?"

Primo leaned against the doorframe, eyes appraising his daughter carefully. She could have gone to a party in rags and still looked wonderful, but all dressed up she was the picture of magnificence. Her dark hair fell gorgeously around her shoulders, and the white gown hugged her shapely body subtly but beautifully. For the first time Primo was given the impression that he was looking at a woman and not a girl when he gazed at his only daughter, but then she grinned and suddenly she was a child again.

"You look just like your mother," he murmured, a smile touching his handsome features. "Beautiful. Simply beautiful, dearest." He stepped lightly into her fragrant room, approaching her and taking her fair face in his warm hands, tilting her chin back to gaze into her adoring eyes. "Little one, there is no woman on earth more perfect than you are now. It saddens me not to have my little girl clutching my arm, but how proud I am to have sired such a wonderful young woman."

Clara beamed at his praise, her cheeks ripening with a blush. Primo leaned in and tenderly kissed her forehead, then said darkly, "No men."

"Papa!" she laughed, poking his chest with one finger, which he kissed lovingly before running his fingers through her curls and then smoothly leaving the room.

Clara waited until she heard the door click into place before she whirled about on one heel and sprinted for the window, heaving it open and thrusting her head outside for a breath of fresh air. Once her lungs felt sufficiently purified she withdrew but left the window open.

"Good God, the things I do for my parents," she groaned, sitting on her bed and flopping backwards mournfully. "I'm going to have Icilio shoot me. Better yet, I'll do it myself." She rubbed her face tiredly, glaring darkly at the ceiling. God. What the hell did he think he was doing? Putting her into an Italian _Mafioso_ family in which she had to be a perfectly demure young woman! When really she'd like nothing more than to get into an old automobile with Icilio and ride out to the middle of the United States and shoot the hell out of badgers with a _lupara_. It simply wasn't fair. She'd give anything, anything in the world, to trade places with one of those middle-class girls who could go out and do whatever they wanted.

Clara couldn't leave the confines of the Atoboti estate without a bodyguard at her shoulder, and God, she never even got the bodyguard whose company she craved the most. Icilio was busy, of course, as a _caporegime_ he was constantly with the Don, helping his master to manage an empire, but still…she couldn't help but feel a little selfish about him. Icilio had made it clear to her that he was interested in her, but as the _caporegime_ of her father it would be too disrespectful to propose a relationship until all the proper measures were taken.

She closed her eyes, allowing her thoughts to drift more towards Icilio and less towards her impending doom--er, birthday. Icilio was an absolutely gorgeous specimen of a male, with black hair that raggedly framed his tanned, scarred, and utterly handsome Italian face. His eyes were odd--steely gray, like the cold edge of a sword, but she'd come to love that penetrating gaze. Icilio understood her, understood that she was not truly the feminine princess she presented to her father and mother. Better yet, he was very much attracted to her wild, unruly side, actually sought her out when she was alone so that he could enjoy her fierce and uninhibited beauty.

Clara smiled faintly. They'd kissed only once, in the library where they often met in secret--not to do anything scandalous, just to see one another. He was ten years older than she, but his feelings for her, she'd come to realize, were pure and uncorrupted. Their first kiss had been only six months before, and it had been as passionate and wonderful as she'd always imagined a first kiss must be. It was the first time she'd ever kissed a man, ever been kissed by a man, and it was sheer bliss to lie on the couch in Icilio's strong arms, with his hand stroking her curls and his warm mouth hotly kissing hers.

The girl rolled over, opening her eyes and tracing a pattern on her quilt absently. She wondered if this was love. She'd caught Icilio looking at her the way Primo often looked at her mother. Clara had had little exposure to men over her life; really the only ones she knew were her father's associates. And to think she might be falling in love with one of them.

Sighing, Clara sat up, rubbing her eyes. Solitude was becoming less and less frequent these days, and she treasured what little time she had to herself. Maybe some day soon, before all of the suitors and potential grooms began to flood her father's doors, she would convince Icilio to take her shooting.

…

"Oh my God in heaven, what the effing hell are you wearing?"

Bastiano Atoboti glanced over his shoulder and grimaced at his older brother, who was staring at Bastiano's white suit in absolute horror. "Too much?"

"What the _hell_, Ben! What are you, an effing housewife? We're _Mafioso_, for Christ's sake! Put on something black, would you? And put on a fedora while you're at it, why the hell not?"

Bastiano smiled ruefully at Rodrigo, who was irritably tearing apart his younger brother's closet. "You're looking pretty sharp yourself there, Roddy."

"Well, it's our kid sister's birthday, if I didn't look sharp I wouldn't be getting to bang any of her pretty little friends tonight, now would I?" Rodrigo Atoboti snickered, his dark eyes dancing with mischief and humor.

"Ugh. You know what the Don thinks of that. No young women, at least until you're older. Girls your own age are much more womanly anyway, Roddy."

"Don't call me that, Benny, and I'll bang whoever the eff I want. I'm a man, after all," Rodrigo said smugly, and Bastiano grinned.

"If you were a man, you'd have the guts to say the actual eff, now wouldn't you?"

"Shut up. The Don doesn't like profanity too much either," Rodrigo said sourly, sitting on his brother's bed and lighting a cigarette. "It almost makes me wish I was a Yank."

"Roddy!" Bastiano said in mock horror. "We're proud Sicilians, we Atobotis--those Yanks are animals, are they not?"

"Shut up," Rodrigo repeated, exhaling in his brother's face. "And put on your damn suit. The guests will be arriving soon."

"Clara's getting to be so big now," Bastiano gushed excitedly, turning to the mirror and replacing his brilliantly white suit with a more acceptable black one. "I'll be we'll be driving boys away from her door every night! Think Icilio will let us use his _luparas_?"

"No way in hell. Try the blue tie instead."

"Say, do you think Icilio might fancy Clarey? I've seen him looking at her sometimes."

Rodrigo snorted. "Kid, every man in this estate fancies Clarey. That's why we're here, got it? We gotta take care of the kid, if not for her sake then for the Don's."

Bastiano nodded his agreement, exchanging the blue tie for a yellow one. "Good?"

"It looks like I took a piss on you. I told you to go blue."

The younger boy smiled, admiring his reflection. His mother's Irish genes had played into him as well, giving him lighter hair and skin; but, like Clara, he had his father's incredibly dark eyes. "I like the yellow. I think it brings out my skin tone better."

Rodrigo was so mortified his cigarette almost fell out of his slack mouth. "My God, you really are a housewife."

The boys' bickering was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door, but Lita entered without waiting for permission, Clara bouncing along at her mother's heels.

"You two are ready, I hope?" Lita inquired, briskly removing Rodrigo's cigarette and pinching the end. "No smoking in the house, I've told you that before."

"The Don does!"

"The Don is the Don," Lita replied simply, then beamed at Bastiano. "You look absolutely wonderful, Benny. Maybe we'll find you a wife today!"

"Mother," Bastiano groaned, horrified.

"Don't be silly, Mother dearest," Rodrigo said smoothly, promptly lighting another cigarette. "Today is Clarey's special day. After all, she's growing into a fine young woman. Aren't you there, Clarey?" he practically cooed, grinning at his sister, who was glowering at him behind her mother's back. Her glares could be more deadly than any _lupara_, and her brothers knew that from experience.

"Don't tease your sister, Rodrigo, this can be a nerve-wracking day," Lita scolded gently, stepping forward to fix Bastiano's shirt. Good Lord, he was as bad as his father. "The guests will start arriving in about an hour, and many of them are the Don's friends. He may also have guests who are coming to ask favors, so do be kind, please? Rodrigo, no drinking, and that goes for you too, Bastiano. I want you two to do the Don proud today. You don't want to gain any disfavor on Clara's birthday, after all, he's nearly as excited as she is."

Rodrigo and Bastiano both grinned when Clara gave the impression of vomiting behind Lita's back; their poor parents really didn't know their own daughter, but of course society didn't really allow Clara to be herself. It really was cruel to give her such a masculine nature behind that beautiful face.

Lita left minutes later to ensure that the Don was prepared, leaving the siblings to ready themselves in peace. Clara sat on Bastiano's bed, fiddling with her curls and glancing anxiously out the window; Rodrigo went for his third cigarette, standing at the window and dragging on it deeply. Bastiano fiddled with his clothes for a few more minutes before sitting at Clara's side and taking her hand reassuringly.

"Are you really that nervous, Clara?" he asked gently, rubbing the back of her fair hand with his thumb.

"More frustrated than nervous," Clara sighed, smoothing her dress absently over her thighs. "This isn't me, you two know that. But Papa would be horrified if he knew that I was more like my brothers than a young lady. My duty is to the Family, you know? I'm to marry a nice man and get pregnant quickly so Papa can have a lot of grandchildren."

"The Don is thirty-four, having grandchildren now will probably depress him," Rodrigo snorted. "Besides, Clara, he's far too protective of you to let you be married so young. You know that he's veered from Sicilian culture a bit, I'm sure he'll let you marry for love, and when you're good and ready."

"I wonder why the Don won't let us call him Papa?" Bastiano wondered, and then yelped when his older brother promptly cuffed him on the back of the head.

"Go ahead and call him Papa if you want to be treated like a daughter, you dope," Roddy said disdainfully, waving his cigarette before his brother's eyes. "Clara is his little girl, but we're his only heirs, and he's our Don. We're the ones who are going to manage the family business, remember? He's just a father to Clare."

"I could help the family business too!" Clara protested immediately. "I'm good with a _lupara_!"

Rodrigo gave her an amused look. "Well, I know that, and Benny here knows that, but does the Don know that?"

Clara flinched. Oh. Again, that impossible obstacle. In her father's eyes, she was still an angel.

…

Put very simply, the Atobotis were rich. It was a wealth gained by three generations of Dons, and it was wealth well earned and well spent. In this case, said money was being spent on the birthday party of the Don's only daughter.

Which meant that Clara got to spend a lovely afternoon puking into a bucket at every given opportunity and waiting for nightfall so she could shoot herself without witnesses.

It seemed that the Atoboti estate had been opened for the public, its great gates thrown open wide, but the two burly guards demanding invitations suggested otherwise. The street directly across from the estate was filled with cars, most illegally parked, and all of high quality. Guests filed in ones and twos, all carrying the lacy white invitation in one hand and a brightly wrapped gift or money-engorged envelope in the other.

Clara sighed deeply, sitting back in her chair and gazing around the main hall of the Palace. Lita had optimistically planned to have the party outside, as there was little snow, but the frigid cold and a Don coming down with a cold had pushed the celebration indoors. It didn't particularly matter; Surano (affectionately called Sunny, though he was possibly the most irritable person Clara had ever met) and his twin brother Siricio had taken it upon themselves to decorate the main hall with every inch of streamer and confetti they could find in the neighboring shops, and they'd done quite a good job.

The Don's daughter jumped when a brightly wrapped parcel materialized in front of her face, and she craned her head back to see her grandfather grinning down at her.

"Happy birthday, little one," Savino Atoboti said fondly, dropping the present into her lap. "Sixteen. How you children have grown."

Clara beamed as he took a seat beside her. She'd never had to pretend much around her grandfather; he was a man of sixty and had always reserved a special kindness just for her. While she certainly didn't behave around him as she did around her brothers, she didn't feel the need to put on her façade of beauty in his presence.

"_Grazi_," she said sweetly, kissing the old man's cheek.

"You're most welcome, sweet," he replied lightly, tucking her hair behind her ear. A smile touched his lips as he lit a cigarette, watching as she curiously poked at the wrapping. "You may open it, there's no reason to wait."

Clara had rather been expecting a dress, or a shawl, or something of that nature, so was quite surprised when a very old and tattered white shirt unfolded in her lap. Confused, she looked over at her grandfather, who was now smiling widely.

"A shirt," he proclaimed, picking it up and attempting to bat out a smudge. "From Sicily. It was mine when I was a young man. I believe I was wearing it when I first met your grandfather. Anyway, it was my favorite. It is for you to wear when Icilio finally decides to take you hunting with him."

He gently laid it back in her lap, the crows' feet at the corners of his eyes deepening as he smiled at the stunned expression on her face.

"_Nonno_," she breathed, and a moment later his cigarette was knocked out of his mouth when she flung her arms around him, clutching him a nearly back-breaking embrace.

"Yes, _bella_, yes," he laughed gently, patting her back with one grizzled hand. "You're most welcome, little one. I'm glad you like it."

"It's wonderful," she said happily, sitting back down and lifting it to her face. The fabric was worn and soft as silk, and bore the faint scent of red wine and smoke. She grinned broadly; no, it wouldn't do to have her hunting in a dress.

"I'm not even going to ask for an explanation for this," Lita's voice said disapprovingly, and Savino and Clara looked up to see the Don's wife holding the abandoned cigarette like it had just committed a crime.

"I believe I misplaced it when I was enveloped by gratitude," Savino said politely, and Lita arched an eyebrow at him. Clara hastily hid the shirt beneath the wrapping paper; somehow she didn't think her mother would approve.

"That could have caught fire, you know," Lita sighed, but her green eyes were warm when she looked at the old man. "Have you seen that son of yours, by chance?"

"I do believe Primo has retreated to his room for the time being," Savino replied, taking out yet another cigarette. This one he did not light. "He's feeling quite ill."

"He never has done well with the cold," Lita sighed, then stepped forward to place a small parcel in Clara's lap. "For you, _bella_. Happy birthday." She kissed her daughter's forehead gently before making her way off, ascending the staircase that would carry her to the ailing Don.

"We should have birthdays more than once a year, don't you agree?" Savino chuckled, lighting the nicotine stick now that Lita had left. "Look at all that loot. You're probably making more today than all the _caporegimes_ make in a year."

"And said _caporegimes_ don't appreciate it," a voice added darkly, and Clara yelped when her vision was suddenly blocked. "Guess who."

"Icilio," she said immediately. She knew his scent--gunpowder, wine, smoke. So much like her grandfather. With a snort the _caporegime_ removed his strong hands from her eyes, stepping around in front of her.

Clara cocked a smirk, folding her arms over her chest and staring up at him skeptically. "What? No present?"

Icilio's eyes glittered darkly from beneath his mane of black hair, and Clara felt a pleasant chill run up her spine at his appraising gaze. "Oh, I got you a present all right," he rumbled. "I'll give it to you later, though. It's a tad...iffy."

"Look at this," she said excitedly, holding up her grandfather's old shirt, and Savino chuckled at her eagerness. "_Nonno_ gave it to me. It was his when he was young, isn't it wonderful?"

Icilio stepped forward, touching the soft Sicilian fabric. She was right--it _was_ wonderful. It was worn and old, but it had an air of respect around it. It had once adorned the body of a Don, and it smelled of home.

He nodded, never having been much good with words, and Clara beamed at his silent approval. He seemed to understand what the shirt's true purpose was now. Something to keep her warm and remind her of home when she and Icilio finally mustered the courage to run off together.

"Icilio! You're a scoundrel, keeping the birthday girl all to yourself!"

Clara peered around Icilio's wide chest and grinned at the sight of the Don's other two _caporegimes_. Raffele was scowling, dark eyes narrowed accusingly in Icilio's direction. Leonardo Atoboti bounced along at his comrade's side, blue eyes seeming to laugh at the gathering beneath his own dark hair. Whatever foreign blood his and Primo's mother had had made itself most apparent in the youngest brother; Leo's startling blue eyes were nearly legendary among the young girls in the city. A beautiful Italian prince with the eyes of an angel.

He found the whole thing quite comical, of course, but he never minded having a lovely young girl hanging off of his arm. He was much worse that Rodrigo in that respect.

"Claricci!" Leo said happily, opening his arms, and she stepped forward to embrace him fully. Leo had always been incredibly kind to her. When she was little he would take her into the city and buy her candy, take her for walks in the park and browsing in stores. He was an uncle to her long before he was the Don's _caporegime_.

"Sixteen," Raffele sighed, adding his own present to the increasingly massive pile on the table. "I can remember when the Don was sixteen. I'm getting old, Savino."

"Indeed, my friend," Savino replied, pouring himself and his oldest comrade a glass of wine. "We both are. Leo, Icilio, care to wet your throats?"

"None for me, thanks," Leo said brightly, but Icilio happily indulged himself with a grunt and a rumbled "_Grazi_."

"I couldn't decide what to get you, so I just stuffed an envelope," Leo said in a loud whisper, handing the envelope to his niece. "See, I would have filled your room to brimming with gifts if I'd been forced to make a decision. And then the Don wouldn't be all that happy with me at all, now would he? He'd say I was spoiling you, but I dare say he's taken care of that little matter all on his own."

Clara grinned and hugged her uncle, patting his thick black hair. "Thank you all the same. It's been a long time since I've been able to shop."

"I'll take you myself," he said proudly, and she grinned. "After all, it's been ages since our last date."

"Raffele, I don't suppose you could head up to the Don's room?" Savino requested, looking at his pocket watch. "He's feeling ill, and he's due to greet all the guests in a few minutes."

"Yes, I'll see to him immediately," Raffele agreed, getting up from his chair. He swiftly kissed Clara's cheek before heading up the spiraling staircase. But no sooner had he arrived at the top than Primo came down the hall with Lita at his arm.

Raffele arched an eyebrow; the Don certainly wasn't looking his best. His hair seemed to have lost some of its luster, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

"You came all the way up just to see me," Primo chuckled, smiling gently and placing a hand on Raffele's shoulder. "Never fear, just a winter cold. I just needed a moment of quiet, that's all. Have all of the guests arrived?"

"The majority," Raffele replied, falling into step behind the couple as they made their way back down the stairs. "Are you quite sure you're feeling all right?"

"I shall be just fine. Thank you for your concern," the Don answered briskly, and quite in a manner that made it clear that the matter was closed.

Clara sat patiently as the final guests greeted her, watching her father carefully as he threaded his way through the crowd. It was amazing to her that her father could be both her father and a Don; the guests looked at him with such reverence and respect that it was as though he would, at any moment, call upon them the power of God. Some clasped his hand with shameless affection; others embraced him or kissed his cheek, and some simply bowed their heads and murmured his name as they passed.

"Godfather," they'd whisper. For he was their protector, a guardian to them all, the unmovable sentinel that watched over the Family.

Clara was pulled from her thoughts by a gentle tug on her curls. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Icilio beckoning to her and jerking his head towards the back door. Excusing herself politely from Leonardo and Savino's chattering company, she slipped quietly from her seat and followed the _caporegime _from the main hall.

She smiled when he led her into the library, breathing in its scent. He pulled the curtains closed and bent to light the fire in the hearth, and she watched the flames dance and illuminate his handsome, chiseled features.

"Now then," he said, turning to face her somewhat awkwardly. "I…um…you look beautiful."

"Oh." She blinked in surprise, then nodded. "Thank you. You look very handsome yourself."

They stood in silence for a moment more, both carefully watching the other. Finally, without another word, Icilio closed the distance between them, pulling a black velvet case from his pocket. Still silent, he turned her around gently and a moment later she felt the cool touch of a chain necklace on her skin. His thick yet graceful fingers skillfully did the clasp, and he turned her once more to observe the golden color on her fair skin.

"Lovely," he murmured, brushing her hair from her neck to proudly observe his gift. "You look lovely."

Clara realized that she wasn't breathing. She'd learned from her grandfather that a golden necklace, in Sicily, was a sign of betrothal; it was practically a proposal. Slowly she lifted her face to meet Icilio's quiet, latently powerful gaze. He lifted a hand and cradled her cheek, thumb caressing her pale skin. Her beauty came over him in a wave, like an ocean, gently calming all of his fears and insecurities, all of his worries about loving her and what the ramifications might be.

"And how is this...iffy?" she asked in a whisper, as though afraid to break the silence.

He shrugged gently. "It's not." Then he leaned in, tilting her head back and pressing his warm lips to hers, kissing her with a sweet tenderness she'd never felt before. He pulled back a moment later, smiling at the stunned expression on her face.

"That was."


	3. II: Demicci

**The Godbot**

_Plenoptic_

**I can't help but really love this story a lot, actually. Sorry this was so long in coming.**

_Additional Term: _"Hit the mattresses": According to the honorable Mr. Puzo, when Mafioso families prepare for mob warfare, they rent out small apartments and station men within each. The men stay there for as long as is needed to keep territory safe and generally sleep on a few provided mattresses, hence the term.

_Character reminders_: Melchiorre being Megatron, Tecla as Thunderblast, Stefano being Starscream, Tussio is Thundercracker, Tolomeo is Trypticon, and Socrate is Soundwave.

Trypticon/Tolomeo somehow came out as being very intelligent and wordy. I don't know how that happened.

_

* * *

_

_II. Demicci_

Melchiorre Demicci closed his eyes wearily, the sound of his son's voice fading to white noise in the back of his thoughts the moment his eyelids fell. He'd always found great solitude in the dark of his own mind, alone with those roiling thoughts, tempestuous as the sea. He was a man greatly seduced by intelligence, by money, and by power, and he felt no shame in admitting it. The ancient Sicilian code of honor had its place, yes, but this was America. This was _New York_. Things were different here.

Stefano glanced sideways, pointed face souring slightly at the sight of the dozing Don. Strongly under the impression that his father was no longer listening to him, Stefano huffed quietly and crossed his arms over his chest, scowling out the window of their long limousine, his breath steaming on the glass.

Sitting across from them, Tecla Demicchi watched the men carefully, dark eyes glittering like insect jewels over the rim of her wine glass. Setting it delicately in its holder, she leaned forward and placed a ringed hand on her husband's knee.

"It's gotten much colder," she observed, smiling sweetly when the Don cracked open an eye to look at her. "Primo never did well in the winter, did he?"

"I cannot order our men to go to the mattresses simply because Atoboti has the sniffles," Melchiorre objected coolly, arching a dark eyebrow. "You know better than that, my dear."

"Of course. But," she went on, leaning back in her seat and smoothing the folds of her red satin dress, "it pleases me to think that while Primo coughs and groans and stays in bed at winter's touch, you stay strong as ever."

Melchiorre didn't comment, shrugging one shoulder and closing his eyes once more.

"You ought to assign me a hit, Father," Stefano said, unplastering his face from the window and looking expectantly at the Don, who opened his eyes once more and glared at the ceiling of the stretch. "You'd love for one of those _caporegimes_ to get whacked, wouldn't you?"

"Even if I did think that you had the skill or wherewithal to remove any of the Atoboti _caporegimes_, my boy, I have no intention of blundering my way into a war I do not, as of yet, have the resources to win," Melchiorre said flatly. "Since when is it in the interests of either of you to speak to me of strategy? Be quiet, the both of you, and let me rest."

Tecla pursed her lips but said nothing more; Stefano huffed again and returned to making faces at the glass. Melchiorre thankfully laid back again, irritably blowing a lock of dark hair from his eyes. It was times like these that honestly made him curse his damnable luck; the fact that the self-righteous Prime Atoboti had been given a beautiful wife, daughter, and two strong and able sons was infuriating, especially when Melchiorre—who had always been far smarter, cleverer, and more adept at financial matters—was left with a nag of a woman and a useless prat of a son.

"You know what, Stefano," he said aloud, allowing his head to loll to the side on the headrest so he could smile unpleasantly at his wary son, "go ahead and try to get that hit. Make it Icilio."

Stefano paled, and Melchiorre had to strongly resist the urge to actually cackle with delight. For all of his talk, Stefano had never had the guts to make good on any of his promises; the thought of being assigned a hit on the fearsome warrior Icilio would likely have him pissing him pants like a new babe.

"Of course, Father," Stefano managed weakly, clamping a hand down on his knee to keep it from visibly shaking and swallowing the panicked knot in his throat. "Of course. It would be a pleasure."

"And you can keep his girl Clara, too," Melchiorre continued in a drawl, kicking off his shoes and stretching his legs out to rest his feet on the opposite seat. Tecla glanced sadly down at her perfectly manicured nails before beginning to rub the Don's feet. "If you can get Icilio, of course."

"Perhaps it would not be wise to take the Don's daughter," Tecla suggested, but Melchiorre only laughed.

"If we kill off one of his _caporegimes_, he'll jump into full war anyway," Melchiorre said smugly. "How upset and unhinged he'd become if his precious little Claricci were to be taken from him. He'd go mad." Smirking, he rubbed his unshaven chin, dark eyes narrowing unpleasantly. "I'd love to see it." Lifting his voice, he called to the driver up front, "Faster there, boy. The Don is a busy man this evening."

The pockmarked young man driving the stretch nodded quickly, knuckles going white on the wheel as he pushed the accelerator, grimacing at the honks he received as he weaved in and out of traffic. Melchiorre sat back once more, allowing his thoughts to drift again. Watching Tecla rub his feet obligingly—just like a good little wife ought—he felt the stirrings of lust in his bowels, eyes traveling from her straight jaw to the subtle cleavage temptingly displayed by her dress.

"You look lovely tonight, my dear," he fairly purred, reaching out a hand to wind a finger into her dark curls. "If it weren't for our audience, perhaps I'd take you right here."

Tecla blushed darkly, brow furrowing, but she didn't look up from his feet. Stefano glanced sideways, a little unnerved, but largely unbothered; it wasn't as if it was unusual for his father to demean his mother, after all.

Turning his head away while Melchiorre leaned in to kiss his wife's neck, Stefano exhaled deeply and began to draw a picture in the steam.

"Haven't we got anything better to do?" Tussio Bizzarri demanded hotly, scowling across the café table at his companions. "We _must_. Give me a hit. Give me a bribe. Give me _something_, something else to do! Anything!"

"This is what the Don requested," Tolomeo Acardi replied simply, biting into the heated, buttered croissant the pretty waitress had brought him earlier. He couldn't help but love these New York girls. "If you won't eat that, I will."

Tussio pushed away his own meal, scowling darkly. "I hate looking for apartments."

"Would you rather buy the mattresses?" Tolomeo asked politely. The bodyguard standing nearby guffawed loudly.

"Oh, shut up, you stupid Yank," Tussio grumbled, snatching back his croissant when Tolomeo reached for it. "No, I will eat that, thanks. Why the hell don't the Don ask Socrate to do this shit?"

"Because Socrate has better things to do, that's why," Tolomeo replied wryly, glaring at his fellow _caporegime_. Unfortuante that the Don be forced to trust so impudent and stupid a fellow. He lifted his mug of coffee, drinking deeply and watching a few young girls huddle outside a shop across the street. Giggling, they conversed for a moment more before shuffling inside, the tinkle of the bell inaudible over the rumble of traffic.

The winter had loosened its grip on the city, if only for a day, permitting the weather to warm to bearable conditions and the sun to stretch in the sky. Automobiles shot by and threw up slush, prompting Tussio to choose the table furthest from the road. He never minded the muck and mud, but like hell was he going to ruin his new Armani.

"It's been awfully quiet lately," Tolomeo noted, looking down dubiously at his watch as though it held some secret he needed to know. "Suppose the Atobotis are all on vacation?"

"I suppose their beloved Don doesn't have the balls to try and drive us out," Tussio snorted, wiping his buttery fingers on a napkin and lighting up a cigarette. "Makes me crazy. We been here since, what, ninteen…?"

"Oh-four."

"Right. 1904. Since 1904 we all been here, fightin' it out every few decades or so, and ain't nobody ever left. New York is a big place, but it ain't big enough for two Sicilian families, you hear?"

"I hear."

"Yeah! That old bastard Cristaldo. He shoulda packed up a long time ago." Tussio exhaled, smoke drifting up from his parted lips and making a vain attempt for the sky. It caught beneath the umbrella over their table, unfurling against the fabric and dispersing slowly. Tussio watched it go.

"Maybe I wanna go back," he said wistfully. "America ain't no place for us."

"No, it's not," Tolomeo agreed, extending a hand and removing a cigarette from Tussio's package. He didn't light it, instead holding it between pliant lips, watching silently as the gaggle of girls finally exited the shop, laden with bags. "But it's where we are."

Tussio snorted, dousing the cigarette in the pristine white tablecloth. "Jesus, you figure that out all by yourself? You're a regular Sherlock Holmes, you is. Betcha the Don'll give ya nice fat pay raise if you spring that on him. That's real quality intel, that is."

"Has anyone told you that, despite your near-passable sense of humor, your follow-up on any given piece of comedy is absolutely abhorrent?" Tolomeo commented lightly, putting out his cigarette in Tussio's coffee and getting to his feet. "Your jokes would be almost amusing if you didn't push them so far."

Grumbling, Tussio stood as well, waving a hand to their latent bodyguard, who had been staring out into space. "Yeah, well. We ain't all Shake-a-spear, you know? Hell, let's find these apartments. Of all the things I'd like to _hit_ tonight, if ya catch my drift, I'd love to hit the matresses."

"It is simply an observation, my Don, but to engage the Atobotis in warfare now would be…unwise."

Melchiorre arched an eyebrow, looking at his _Consigliere_ quizzically. It had been two weeks since his unpleasant car ride with his family, and since then, he'd been brewing over the uncomfortable Atoboti encroachment into their gambling rings. "Oh really? And you feel that way because…?"

Socrate lowered his head, abashed. "I am not questioning your wisdom."

"Of course you're not. You know better. It makes you awfully wise yourself." Melchiorre stroked his stubble of a beard, absently gazing out the frosty window of his private study. Socrate, feeling fidgety, got to his feet and stood before Melchiorre's bookshelf with his hands linked behind his back, eyes wandering almost lovingly over the familiar titles. Almost all of the books were about European wars dating as far back as man could remember, and Socrate had read, studied, reread, and analyzed every single one. Anything to be of more use to the Don.

Turning to his beloved Godfather, Socrate approached the desk once more. "The simple matter, my Don, is that the Atoboti family unfortunately has more manpower than we do. Their _caporegimes_ are good for getting men if nothing else. And Atoboti himself still has much sway over the New York politicians."

"Duly noted." Melchiorre tapped his chin, swiveling absently in his chair. "This is America, my dear Socrate. And this is _New York_, nonetheless. If we cannot find good Sicilian boys to fight for us, surely some of these Yanks will be happy if we give them a pistol, yes?"

"They are wary of the police," Socrate said slowly.

"This is no problem. I have recently been…acquainted with the head of the NYPD. We shared a few drinks," Melchiorre cocked a crooked smile, "and a few women. I'm sure he'd be willing to assist us with any trouble our boys run into."

Socrate bowed his head. "Then I shall instruct Tussio and Tolomeo to begin recruiting, my Don."

"Yes, do." Melchiorre extended a hand, patting Socrate's dark hair. "So obedient, Socrate. So obliging." Grinning, he laughed loudly. "If you were a woman, Socrate, you'd make the perfect little wife!"

Socrate left shortly after, that cold laughter ringing in his ears.


	4. ii: New Year

**The Godbot**

_Plenoptic_

**Believe it or not, my finger is wrapped up again, this time for a completely different reason. **

**Everyone—a very Happy New Year. Thanks for making 2010 such a wonderful time to be a FFN writer, and let's continue to make the world of nerd literature bow at our awesome metallic feet.**

* * *

**New York City, USA**

**Dec 31, 1944**

**11:35 p.m.**

"Damn it! Icilio—drive faster!"

"Shut up, Raffele! You try driving this God-damned contraption with five damn Sicilians breathing down the back of your neck!"

"Better than four damn Yankees, eh?"

"Leo, hush, let him drive."

"Icilio, you are currently in violation of this area's speed restriction laws. Please slow down."

"Paciano, pull that stick out of your ass!"

"Rodrigo! Don't speak that way! I taught you better!"

Icilio growled to himself, thick knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. The New York City traffic was hopelessly congested, hundreds of Italians pouring into Little Italy to see loved ones, and though the Don's private car was imposing, it certainly wasn't small enough to navigate the heavy traffic. The black vehicle was crowded, with Icilio and Raffele bickering in the back seat and Rodrigo, Paciano, and Primo stuffed in the back and trying to keep comfortable. Originally it had just been the four underlings who had decided to go into town together, grab a drink, some New Year's gifts, and hell, maybe some girls, but their plans had turned sour when Primo happily jumped into the car after them.

None of them complained (with the exception of Rodrigo, whom Primo pointedly ignored) as the Don dragged them all over the downtown shops, poking his nose into every one and speaking with the vendors in light, cheerful Italian, dark eyes aglow as he wished friends and associates the best for the coming year. It appeared that diplomacy was not his only intent, however—he'd stopped into every jeweler regardless of whether he knew the shopkeep. At every one he'd spent several minutes with his nose inches off the glass, eyes narrowed in perfect concentration, before straightening, shaking his head, and moving on down the road.

"I am looking for a very particular piece," he would explain kindly to the disappointed jeweler, smiling lightly. "Though yours are very beautiful, the one I have in mind must be fit for a queen."

"Mother will love anything you give her," Rodrigo had said tentatively after the fifth jeweler had been turned down, anxiously checking his watch. It was, at that point, ten o' clock, but Primo had only shaken his head solemnly and continued his hunt.

Smiling, oddly contented by Raffele and Icilio's increasingly violent argument, Primo lovingly fingered the small velvet box that held his prize, the spoils of his long search. He felt foolish for not giving her the gift for Christmas; he felt even more foolish for waiting until New Year's Eve to even find the thing. But his beloved would be ecstatic, and that was all that mattered.

"It's eleven fifty! Eleven fifty, Icilio! Move, or we'll be late!"

"Fool! Shut up and let a man drive!"

"Icilio, please, do hurry," Primo requested, tapping his driver on the shoulder. "I don't want to miss the twelfth hour, you know. New Year's is important to Lita."

"Yes, sir," Icilio said, grining manically, and abruptly slammed his foot flat to the floor of the car, pressing one fist onto the horn. The automobile lurched violently, the engine groaning, before it began to accelerate, the horn blaring as Icilio began to weave hazardously in and out of the late traffic, rolling down his window to roar angrily at slow patrons.

"Holy God, we're going to die," Paciano whispered, pale as a ghost, while Rodrigo rolled down his own window and whooped loudly. Primo rolled his window down as well, resting his head against the door and enjoying the wind whipping through his hair as Icilio tore off into the New York night.

They arrived at the Palace at eleven fifty-seven, tearing through the gates with a shouted apology to the guard from Paciano, shooting up the long driveway and all piling out of the car before Icilio had even applied the brake properly. Primo ducked out ahead of Paciano, straightening his tie as he sprinted through the double oak doors and into the main house.

"Looking for someone?" Cristaldo Atoboti questioned, seated comfortably in the parlor with a pipe in hand, arching one overgrown eyebrow when his grandson came through the doors.

"Lita," Primo replied breathlessly, hanging onto the doorframe and peering into the room. "Before midnight…" He looked up at the tall grandfather clock in the corner and groaned. Eleven fifty-eight and thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two…

"Go, boy, go," Cristaldo laughed, waving merrily as the young Don took off down the hall. Shaking his head, he straightened his newspaper and took a long draw from his pipe. "Young and in love…those traumatic days…"

Primo found himself panting and gasping as he finally made it to the top of his house, leaning on the banister for support as he sucked in air through heaving lungs. Shaking his hair out of his face, he steeled himself before taking off once more, all but kicking down the fine oak door that guarded his and Lita's private room from the rest of the hallway. He ran inside, pivoted on his heel, beyond excitement—and found she wasn't there.

Dismayed, he looked at the clock, and felt his stomach plummet when the large hand finally fell upon the twelve, beginning its song for the new year. The first dong rang so deeply he felt it rattle his bones, and he swung around to head back into the house—and came face to face with a bewildered Lita Atoboti.

"Primo…?" she said, stunned, gripping his lapels to stabilize herself when he nearly knocked her over in his haste. "What are you doing…?"

"Lita!" he gasped, taking hold of her upper arms and pulling her close. "Sorry—so sorry—Happy New Year—"

"To you too," she laughed, bemused. "It will be just as wonderful as the last, yes?"

"Better," he murmured, cupping her chin in one large hand and tilting her face up to meet his. His lips brushed her forehead before closing gently over hers. She sighed softly into his kiss, lifting her hands to gently twine her fingers through his dark hair, caressing the nape of his neck as her touch traveled to his collar, teasing his tie down. She'd just gotten his top button undone as the clock struck seven, and abruptly he pulled away from her, grinning widely.

"Just a moment," he laughed when she pouted, patting her cheek as he dug in his pocket with his free hand. "I bought you something…just one…now, where did I…?"

Pulling his hand out empty, Primo frowned, grimacing when the clock tolled nine. Realization hit him, and he groaned, clapping a hand to this forehead.

"Primo…?"

"The car," he sighed, shaking his head, covering his eyes. "I left it in the car…I was in such a rush to get it to you that I forgot about it completely…"

Much to his surprise, Lita laughed, gripping his wrist gently and pulling his hand from his face.

"Foolish man," she giggled, leaning close to him and tucking her head under the curve of his chin. "You buy me gold and jewels and cars and clothes, and all I've ever wanted is _you_."

"Oh," he replied breahtlessly, flustered, closing his eyes when her lips pursed beneath his jaw. "Well then…you shall have me, my dear, for as long as you'd like…"

"That's what I like to hear," she whispered cheekily, leaving a loving bite against his throat before abruptly withdrawing from his embrace. "Let me change," she laughed, indicating her clothes—long pants smudged with mud from their garden. She headed into their washroom, and Primo whipped off his tie, undoing the first two buttons of his shirt before undoing the third as an afterthought. He hurried to her vanity, brushing his hair from his eyes, shaking it back, pushing it away once more before frowning and mussing a hand through it.

"Pssst. _Pssst_. Pop!"

Primo whipped around, cocking his head to the side in confusion when he saw his door ajar. Creeping forward, he pulled it open an inch or two more, blinking when Benny stuck his head in, grinning.

"Roddy told me to bring this to you," the boy whispered, extending to his father a small, red velvet box. "He said you need it tonight."

"Bless you, Benny," Primo chuckled, kissing his boy on the forehead before taking the box and shooing him away. He closed the door, straightened, and turned, the box behind his back, just as Lita reentered, clothed in her silk bathrobe.

"What are you looking so smug about?" she questioned, arching one eyebrow when he approached her with a swagger.

"Nothing in particular," he replied airily, stepping behind her, and unclasped the box to withdraw the treasure within. Lita stiffened when his blunt fingers brushed her hair away from her neck, and shivered when something cold contacted her skin.

"For you, dearest," he murmured, lips tickling her ear, and she looked down at her chest, fingers gently touching the pendant resting against her collar. Primo's gift was a tiny silver replica of the state of New York, the edges finely detailed, the rivers chiseled on its surface. The piece was delicately set with a single emerald, planted in the exact location of the Palace.

"I found the pendant itself tonight, and had the jeweler inset the emerald," Primo explained bashfully, clasping his arms around her waist and pulling her into him. "Do you like it?"

"Foolish man," she repeated, lifting it up to the light, marveling at the detail. She turned in his arms, slipping her own around his neck and pulling him in close. She avoided his parted lips and pressed a light kiss to his nose, smiling at the flush of heat that rose in his face. "Of course I like it, darling—love it, really. It's thoughtful." Leaning back in his arms, she beamed up at him, running her fingers down the strong curve of his jaw. "Thank you."

"But of course," he fairly purred, spreading his hand at the small of her back and pulling her back in, free hand lifting to cup her cheek and bring her lips to his once more. "Let it guide you home on lonely evenings this year…"

"You should have been a poet," she remarked dryly, and with a smirk he swept her up into his arms and carried her to their bed. Lowering her onto the satin sheets, their lips met gently, and they spoke no more.

**Yay for fluff :D**

**Happy New Year!**


End file.
